


Feast of Words & Gold

by wordbyrdaber



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Also you should not play pool with leprechauns, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone is angry., F/M, Now with more Irish folklore!, Or go to grad school., Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-28 05:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordbyrdaber/pseuds/wordbyrdaber
Summary: There were stories before the story most people know.There were other things and events that Mr. Nancy knew about - but he'd neglected to tell any mortal. So, left to their own devices, other scribes and storytellers had gotten parts of it all wrong - like the story of Buile Shuibhne and his abandon wife.That's why Carrie Anne is having such a hard time finishing her damn dissertation.Things are looking bleak until one night when her face gets in the way of a fistfight.





	1. A Battle

*Brollach: A Prologue*

The day is dark.  
Eorrin stays to the side of the wall outside the fortress hall’s large wooden door for fear of losing her balance. She has gone out to collect herself – the air in the rough-hewn courtyard is better for her constitution these days. In the mornings, she is sick and during waking hours it does no good to smell the shit of the dogs, smoke, and meat – get sick on the dirty thrushes only to incur the wrath of her kinsmen. The whirring of feathers and light in a moment that slants her reality tells her Buile has come for a visit, and she turns, sees the naked man sprouting feathers, and sinks to her knees, gathering herself before she speaks. 

“I’m sorry,” she cries to the vacant eyes of her other. 

“There was no choice, and a child on the way.”

There is only silence that greets her as she keens in the mud. There has always only been silence, and it damns her – drives her as mad as the stubborn, obstinate solider king she was given to years ago. She had tried to keep him from bringing the wrath of the New God down on their heads, but in his anger at the church, she had not been quick enough to quell his temper – and so, here they were. She was a poor relative in what had been her own home. He was damned to wander, and silent always except for the yelling that they’d all heard just beyond the wall. Most nights, she sat in the yard after all the others slept save for the watchman who’s eyes followed her with heavy gaze. She would silently implore the torment to stop – listen to her husband’s voice rise and scream on the wind.  
As she listened, she’d also hear again what the soldiers had said – the sound of spear, sword, and dying that had driven him finally to leaving his courage on the battlefield.  
They were cursed by the New God, and he now owed the Old Gods for a lack of honor – owed them a battle, as was the custom. It was her doom as well as his – in her own anger, she’d taken up with his cousin – lived now in his dwelling, and tending to him.  
And there was naught but silence from this other one, as if he knew all her own sins as well as his own. Finally, with the heft of her stomach pulling her further into the dirt, she picked herself up with a stumble and leaned once more against the stone. 

“I have no love – never did - but if I had the choice…” 

Swallowing hard, she managed a glance into the eyes as grey-blue as the water beyond the cliffs. She could seek absolution if she could just bear to speak instead of wail. But she was always mourning – crying for someone who might as well be dead and gone.

“If I had the choice, I’d rather stay with you who I already pledged my faith to, though it seems that all have abandon us. There is no God left that I pray to.”

On the air, and low in her ear as if he were standing near her as he always had before – low in a tone that pricked at her bones – there was a reprieve from the silence, and for a moment she could hear her King’s voice once more:

“There are Gods, and then there are Gods, and they’ll fuck us all in the end.” 

 

Part I – Battles 

 

I found the bar after my second week back home, and thank God.  
It was embarrassing enough admitting to my parents that I was broke – it was worse yet to be under their watchful eyes constantly. It wasn’t that I was a loser who’d shuffled back because I didn’t have any prospects…at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.  
Truth is, my dissertation wasn’t done – and so for the time being, viable job prospects were.  
I’d been working hard on my literature review when my funding ran out.  
I’d tried to pick up scholarships or grants, and had thought about taking out another lone.  
Turns out, administrators aren’t all that taken with bitter grad students trying to break through the mysteries of ancient folk prose that came from across the ocean.  
Past that, I wasn’t fond of hiring myself out to whatever grocery store would have me…so I begged the folks for my old room back.  
The phone call to Mom had been torture. After I asked the inevitable question, there was dead silence on the other end of the line.

“Just…for six months. I - I think I can finish by then,” I managed. 

The rest of our conversation had gone about as well as you think.  
During the day, I hauled my ass to the library that stood in the center of a pitiable town square. It was one of those spots that brochures of the city call “historic” and “memorable.” It was my belief that if you’d seen one place like Nottamun, you’d seen ‘em all.  
I was getting to be on a first-name basis with the librarians because I worked every day the doors were open, as long as I could before my eyes started to hurt and my brain gave out. When, after a few days, they started to gossip with me about their nieces, children, and friend’s husbands, I began wearing a huge and obvious set of headphones. It was the proverbial “fuck you” I needed to keep them out of my hair, and for the most part, it worked.  
I brought the same things to the library with me every day. I had documents that I dutifully kept in a file folder, and a second-hand laptop that was stashed in a black leather satchel by my side. I had nearly everything I needed for my work on me at all times. Except for the most precious stuff - all scanned originals from Trinity’s library in Dublin were backed up on a memory stick that never left the lock box that I kept in my sock drawer - in case the other copies I needed became corrupted. And I had good reason to keep it locked up tight – I’d spent my life savings making the trip to Ireland two summers before. It had wiped out the small nest egg I’d managed to gather, and that was why I was in my current predicament, really – at least that was what Mom gleefully reminded me of whenever we had it out. Those fights usually started when I refused to eat Sunday casserole dinner with the folk’s friends from church, or other such banal bullshit.  
This was the rottenest string of bad luck I’d ever had in my life.  
Two years ago – back when I’d decided to go to Ireland, the trip hadn’t seemed like something I’d regret. It had been the chance of a lifetime. I’d traveled with my mentor, an old linguist who believed that I was capable of a future in the field of ancient medieval Irish lore. Truth be told, the number of viable careers in the area are pretty low and likely to stay that way.  
Nevertheless, he told me – kept insisting that I had “great potential.”  
Great potential for failure, maybe.  
Six semesters later, I was still trying to prove the same theory I had about a variant translation I’d weeded out of an 11th century tome. If I could just find a cross-reference verification, or get a break from the other documents I’d stashed, I might be able to finish my work and finally graduate. But…but…dreaming is free – my efforts were starting to fade into a monotonous, mechanical resignation.  
During evenings, I’d try to relax – these days, that meant driving twenty minutes on old Road N out to Jack’s Crocodile Bar where I’d stare some more at my work from a big booth where the seats were covered in red pleather. I could stretch out there – I could lay all my books down, and then drink at least three of whatever was on tap and cheap.  
It was the kind of place where a veritable cross-section of humanity ended up, and aside from a few of the regulars who had started to recognize my face, I was pretty much left alone; the truckers, bikers, and other bar flies didn’t find much use for me. I liked the place because of the big crocodile that was literally built around the hard-wood bar, and the stools that were shaped like croc heads, too. It felt seedy and sticky to me – like a too-hot afternoon in late August where everything is dusty and too bright, but it was also weird and alive. I needed to soak up the energy to keep myself going. Plus, the waitresses called me “sweetie” and the owner was nice in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. Jack wanted people thinking she was a hard-boiled bitch – but she always asked how my work was going, and on really hard days, she’d give me a shot of good whiskey on the house. 

“I don’t know why the fuck you come here to ‘study,’ kiddo,” she’d often lament between tapping the ash off her Virginia Slims, and large swigs of beer. 

“Seems that there are better places for a nice girl with lots of schooling to go.”

“Exactly,” I replied. 

“And right now, all of those places are driving me out of my damn mind.” 

*****

 

I’m a tall awkward thing. When I have my glasses on, the word “mousey” applies.  
In my black hoodie and pinned-up hair, I am forgettable. I clean up nice, but in small town Indiana who gives a shit what you look like?  
One of the only people who knew me – really knew me – was Adam. He came around now that I was back home. Now, he hadn’t left his stomping grounds except for a stint at a local liberal arts college two hours down the road where he’d learned to teach shop classes and flirt with girls. He was something between an eligible bachelor and a man child – short and stout, with a mop of dirty blond hair that hung over his deep-set brown eyes. I’d personally never thought of him as a “guy”– just someone I’d known for damn near twenty years – and, bonus, I knew that it wasn’t hard to have him around. His ball caps and tee-shirt uniform doubled with an unassuming presence was comforting. He was closer to me than my actual family in a lot of ways.

“Jesus, Carrie Anne. You have to let up a little.”

It was a Monday night during late June when Adam called me and informed me that he was “bored.”

“Good fucking luck with that in this town,” I’d said.

He asked me what I was doing with my evening, and I’d told him I was going to Jack’s to get some work done. He’d scoffed at that.  
“Nobody goes to The Crocodile Bar to work,” his voice jumping an octave with the amusement I could feel bubbling up through my cell’s speaker. 

“Dude, I’ve got to get this done. I think that if I have to stay any longer than half a year, I’m going to slowly atrophy into a fucking puddle of gray matter and self-hatred.”

We’d decided to meet at Jack’s, although I was pretty adamant about not doing a lot of socializing while I was there.

“It’s fine, Car. You can drink and stare at your weird feast story. I’ll shoot some pool.”

“Fled Dúin na nGéd,” I muttered into the receiver, stumbling over the words due to lack of practice. There was a pause, then he cleared his throat. 

“Yeah, that.” 

So at ten thirty or thereabouts, I was looking for cognates that signified a translation no one in my discipline would validate, and Adam was busting solids into pockets while some of the younger waitresses lingered near him to take in his “skills,” or whatever.  
At least one of us was having a good night.  
I don’t know when things started changing, or when the air moved out of the room but I think I finally looked up when a throbbing in my temples and a low buzz in my ears made it hard for me to stare at my computer screen. I was about to ask Jack if there was any Advil behind the bar – and then I thought better of it. Over the din of the place, slouching with elbows against the wooden counter – so massive that he could barely fit his ass between two stools - was a big ginger son of a bitch. He looked like something between a drunk hipster and a body-builder. His hair was shaved into a kind of mullet-mohawk, and he wore a denim jacket that had seen better days. My stomach lurched as I watched him put down a drink with record speed. He was glaring at Adam with an evil smirk on his scraggy face, and something in me told me that this…person was looking for fights. Yes, Adam and I were grown. Sure, we were capable of taking care of ourselves, but did that mean we could take on a guy like this?  
Fuck no.  
We were two white kids from nice families, and as a rule we didn’t get in a lot of hand-to-hand combat. Dude looked like he was into making trouble, and I personally wanted none.  
Unwilling to cross into the line of fire, I got out my phone and shot Adam a text – hoping to alert him without having to say something that would make the moment worse. The wait staff had moved away from the pool table, and my friend was obliviously setting up his next shot.

“C’mon, c’mon – check your fucking phone,” I whispered to myself, sending out another text that read, “Don’t look now, but big red doesn’t seem friendly. Come sit down a while?” 

Nothing. No buzz that caused Adam to move towards his jean pocket – no reaction at all. Just the terrible sound of Waylon Jennings over the speakers, the clinking of glasses, and the smack of a cue hitting resin and hardened plastic. It was the worst kind of luck, and I could tell it was getting worse by the moment.  
“Fancy a game for fame or profit?”  
Big red yelled his proposition, and the sound reverberated off the mural-filled walls bathed in swampy yellow light. Adam finally looked up and bunched his eyebrows together for a moment. I bit my lip, and willed him to look over at my booth where I sat staring daggers at him, adamantly shaking my head “no” in a crazy exaggerated motion.  
And just like that, I’d drawn too much attention to myself. Big red spared me a glance, lifting his eyebrows in amusement, then smiled.

“Maybe you should just listen to your girlfriend, darling. Don’t seem like she’s got faith in your abilities…and she’d fucking know, eh?” 

At once, my friend squints his eyes and his face started getting a little red. I could count on my hand the number of times I’d seen Adam mad – there was once in tenth grade when some asshole had taken a piss on his truck in the high school parking lot. I knew in my bones that he was probably reliving that very moment, and I wasn’t sure of what the consequences would be.  
He sized up big red and then looked back at me before motioning with his chin towards the table. 

“Stripes or solids,” he asked.  
“And what are we playing for?” 

Big red grinned, and reached into the air momentarily. Three gold coins slipped like falling stars from his hand, and made a musical ‘clink’ onto the bar. He scooped them up, held his hand out towards Adam, and smiled. If I had no patience for scary assholes, I had even less for scary assholes doing magic tricks. Adam looked confused, and even more confused when big red sauntered over to the table, and placed the shiny gold discs onto a corner of the pool table. 

“You beat me, and you get these. I beat you and…I get a free punch square at your jaw…because I don’t like your face. And I don’t like the fact that you don’t listen to your woman.” 

“Um, nope, not his woman,” I declared from across the room, abandoning my booth, and making a bee-line for Adam. Avoiding big red’s gaze, which hadn’t left Adam’s face, I tugged on his arm urgently.

“Let’s go, man. This dude is obviously…not ok, and it’s not worth it. Let’s just go.” 

“But he said-”

“I know, I heard – and I don’t give a shit. Let’s go.”

“That’s a lot of money, m’boy,” Big Red drawls, interrupting the conversation.

“Those coins are antiques, you know – you could probably get something out of ‘em. Shame to walk away because you’re afraid of taking a punch.” 

Adam looked square into my face, and I could read it – I could read his thoughts. 

“Don’t do it,” I managed. 

“Not for me. Not for my sad little fucked up life.” 

He smiled for a split second, and then pulled his arm away.

“I’ll just give them to you so that you can pay me back for all the beer I’ve bought us since you’ve been back. I’ve got this, Carrie Anne.”

Gritting my teeth, I backed away from the table. All of a sudden, Adam seemed emboldened and I didn’t quite know why. Did he want to have something to brag to his buddies about tomorrow? How could the prospect of three – quite possibly fake – gold coins really tempt him that much?  
I shook my head.

“It’s your funeral,” I finally muttered, pulling a booth back against the wall to give both players plenty of room. 

My friend is adept at the game – he really is. We’re from the kind of town that places emphasis on high school football in the fall and basketball in the spring, but if there had been a billiards team, he could have been the captain. When you grow up in a place with next-to-nothing going on, you spend your time at lots of bowling alleys, and arcades. There were usually tables to practice on in those kinds of places, and Adam had – nearly as long as I’d known him.  
But big red was strong and quick – he played with a precision balanced by fury that I’d never seen or felt. When the game started turning sour – when Adam started winning, I could see the annoyance in big red building. And then, like the sudden start of a downpour, the giant fucker willed odds in the other direction. By the time the last ball was sunk, I was shaking my head and hoping like hell big red didn’t want to hit my friend all that badly.  
However, it was immediately apparent that he did. 

“You owe me a fistful – you owe me a scrap -” 

Big red barked as the final ball landed precisely where he had meant it to go. With a horrible grin that made the air feel like a whirlwind, big red reeled back his arm and fist. I jumped off of my spot at the wall quicker than lightening - getting myself in between the two men just as big red let it fly. I ducked under the swinging giant and pushed Adam with all my might. Happily, I was able to knock a shell-shocked Adam away just in time…but the side of my face kind of got in the way, and I took a glancing blow.  
I landed on the floor, blood bubbling out of my nostril with the force of it. I couldn’t speak for a moment because of shock more than pain. It echoed in time with my heartbeat, and I wasn’t capable of breathing or words or…thinking. The whole place had gone uncharacteristically quiet except for the lyrics from Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” falling down on all our heads. For a moment, no one did anything, and then I found my voice – itching at the front of my throat. 

“Dammit! Dammit, you crazy bastard,” I yelled. 

“What gives you the right to hurt me – to hurt anyone?” 

More silence. I started up again.

“I swear to all that’s holy, assholes around here never learn,” I shouted, despite the taste of blood and something else on my tongue. 

I expected someone to answer. I thought that at least the sociopath ginger would have something to yell back at me. Instead, Adam immediately knelt down by my side, my broken glasses gingerly held between index and thumb. He was shaking, and tried to mutter something to me – but my ears were still ringing, and my blood was too loud to concentrate on his words. When I looked up, big red had thrown himself back against the pool table, his eyes wide and equally scared. I was vaguely aware of Jack rushing out from wherever she’d been at the behest of a waitress, towel tucked into one hand, and shotgun haphazardly in the other. 

“Goddammit, you jackass,” she yelled. 

“Hitting girls now? You probably broke her fucking brain!” 

“It wasn’t fucking meant for her. I didn’t…it was for the bastard cock-sure asshole –“ he yelled after swallowing hard, eyes still wide and furious. 

Because of all the hubbub – because I had imagined a bar fight starting, and didn’t expect the lack of action after I’d taken part of the punch meant for Adam, I sat stupefied on the floor. Only after Jack was holding pressure against my nasal cavity and Adam was saying something about the hospital did I take another look around. Big red was gone – but the three golden coins he’d seemingly pulled from out of absence and space were still laying on the pool table.  
I had been exposed to equal parts trauma and weirdness in the span of an hour, and in truth I did feel that more had been knocked loose in me – not just my nose or my jaw. My vision started to fuzz at the edges, and I managed to mutter something to Adam about grabbing my books for me before my body checked out completely. Finally – mercifully, I blinked out like a broken electric current.


	2. An Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it's like you're not speaking at all.  
> Until the big Irish fucker who got you into this mess makes it very clear he's not going to leave you alone anytime soon.

Part II – An Understanding

Hospitals are like hives – they’re always buzzing, busy, and alive (and simultaneously full of the dead, if you want to be particular.) I hadn’t had much experience with them. When I was young, I’d had to have my tonsils removed, and I was kept overnight for observation. When you’re a kid, places like St. Catherine’s were terrifying; now that I was older, they were just annoying. I’d woken slowly at around two in the morning. My Dad was asleep in a chair across the room from me – I could barely make out his form in the light from a crack in the doorway. It showed the hellish florescent glow from outside, and I could hear voices from overhead speakers calling out as the sound of metal and wheels rushed by.  
I laid there a moment trying to adjust, then grabbed my wrist.

A dull aching pain led me to discover the tube imbedded beneath my skin and secured with tape, right below a plastic bracelet that had been fastened around me. It reminded me of the ones you get when you enter a concert or a fair – but I’d come by this one, not by having an awesome time, but for getting my lights punched out by a crazy bar-goer.

“Fucking bastard – shit,” I heard myself mutter.

Dad winced in the chair, coming to. For the first time that evening, I was grateful – grateful that it was my father had come to sit with me – see that I was alright – and not my Mom. Even though things had been strained at home, I was still safe where Dad was concerned. It was still nice, being with him.  
We’d sit and watch the news together, or I’d work in the garage sometimes when he was tuning up his ’87 Volvo wagon, which was his ongoing project that would probably never be quite done. We didn’t speak that much - he never asked me about how my dissertation was going. Never asked when I was finally moving back out, and what my plans were. We just sat, and occasionally exchanged smiles.  
He cleared his throat, and inhaled calmly before saying anything.

“Hey, sugar pea. You awake?”

“I guess so – my head hurts and I can hear you, so that must mean I am.”

There was silence a moment, and then Dad left the room so fast that it made the bed shake. I bit my lip and sat up a little more in the hospital bed. When Dad came back, it was with a lean black woman in scrubs and a bright teal sweater.

“Hey there, honey. I hear you’re ready for a vitals check?”

She was soft and cheerful, and it was like a tonic.

“Sure,” I replied, doing my best to reflect her face.

After that single word – that single syllabic word, she turned and looked to my Dad. He glowered back. I didn’t understand the reactions that were going on – didn’t understand the expressions on their faces. Aside from the pain in my lower jaw and nose, aside from the ache where my I.V. was hooked up, I felt fine. They should be happy that I wasn’t in worse shape. Big red had at least forty or fifty pounds on me – there was no doubt in my goddamn mind that he could have done more damage. The nurse set about taking my temperature, and wrapping black Velcro around my upper arm so that she could pump in time to my pulse.

“I’m sorry I worried everyone so much,” I said through a sheepish grin, glancing up meaningfully at Dad.

“How’s Adam?”

Still no answer, except Dad raised his brows for a minute, and his mouth moved a bit silently.

“A-Adam? Did you ask about Adam? He-he’s fine, sugar pea. A little shaken up, but he’ll come to visit tomorrow. He’s awful sorry,” Dad glanced back at the nurse, who was now writing my numbers down on her chart.

“He’s sorry about everything.”

“He should maybe blame himself - just a little,” I muttered.

No answer – from Dad or the nurse, which made me twitch.

“Hey, did anyone happen to grab my stuff? I had my bag and computer with me at Jack’s.”

I spoke louder this time, determined to make someone say something to me.  
Silence. No one answered my question, and I looked at both people in the room again. They were both staring back at me, dumbfounded.

“Wh-what’s going on?”

“Sugar pea, I know you’re trying to say something to us…but you’re not making any sense.”

“What do you mean I’m not…what? What’s the matter with you?”

Dad continued over the sounds of my voice which was growing more frantic by the moment.

“I can’t make out what you’re saying. You’re just…you’re talkin’ funny, Carrie Anne. Adam said that this started after you got hit by the man at the bar. Now, don’t worry – we’ve called the police. The officers will likely find ‘im, and hopefully we can charge him for assault…but I think…well, you’ve just been so stressed,”

“What are you talking about? What do you mean you can’t understand me? I’m speaking just fine – just like you are! What the fuck!”

“Miss Eaves, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down,” the kind nurse put her hand over my shoulder, and gave me a reassuring pat. Then, she addressed my father.

“The doctor will come in to see her tomorrow. He may think that she needs to see our neurologist – her brain may have gotten hurt when she got hit. It might have been that when she fell, the impact messed with her a little bit. We’ll probably keep her until we can figure out what’s going on.”

I made a sound at the back of my throat too near sobbing for comfort.

“I just want to go home,” I said as my vision blurred behind the saltwater threatening to spill out over my face.

“I’m fine, I just…I wanna go home. And – and where’s my shit?”

 

 

So, the damn doctor couldn’t help.  
It was like Vygotsky’s nightmare – apparently, I wasn’t making any sense to anybody, and hadn’t since the fight at Jack’s.

“We think it might be a variation on Dysprosody,” my new, shiny neurologist told me. Just what every girl wants, eh? Their very own brain physician.

As far as medical professionals went, I’d had worse. His short, sinewy stature and bright sharp eyes made him look nearly elf-like. He joked around with me about my inability to talk to anyone, and instead of minding it, it actually made me laugh.  
He would put one hand up to his ear, look at me expectantly, and make big, exaggerated “Eh? EH?” noises. What I liked best was that was smart enough to speak directly to me when I was in the room instead of addressing everyone else as if I was absent. Just because they couldn’t understand me didn’t mean I couldn’t understand them, the assholes.

“This happens to some people, and usually works itself out with lots of cognitive speech-language therapy,” he said, looking into my eyes with a small light, sympathetically smiling into my face.

“Sometimes it resolves itself very quickly – but sometimes it takes years. It’s hard to tell.”

I balked at that because I didn’t have years. I had months, and maybe not even that. I had a schedule that I needed to keep with my program or I’d be out for good and worse off than I already was. What’s more, no one had said anything about what had happened to my books, my computer, or my big black bag that I carried it all in. I counted myself lucky, though – I still had the backup I’d stashed. That was a small comfort, although the work I’d gotten done while I’d been home was still on my PC.

After a full 48 hours, the hospital released me. Dad drove me home, and I found myself back in my old room – nervously trying to think about my next move. I sat on my little twin bed, looking around at all the old posters I’d collected when I was younger. Large paper swathes of Alex Grey paintings, and pictures of my favorite bands stared down at me. It was ironic that I was here in this place – where, a lifetime ago, I’d felt misunderstood so often. When you’re a nerdy kid who gets intense about things like school, you develop a reputation that makes certain you’ll stay home a lot during the weekends.  
In a way, everyone’s perception of me hadn’t changed that much.

No one could understand what I was saying, but maybe they could understand me in writing. Or drawing? At any rate, I’d have to speak – or motion wildly at Adam – and hunt down my things at some point…so I got out my cell phone. I sent various texts, all of which made perfect sense to me, but Adam couldn’t make heads or tails out of them. After screaming and throwing various things against the wall (and after Mom yelled at me for it) I’d had a think, finally settling on a possible solution.

I resorted to assigning letters of the alphabet to different emojis. For example, *smiley face* was the equivalent of “A” and so on. It took nearly three hours to get Adam and I to a point where we could communicate, but we finally managed to arrange a trip back out to the bar. He picked me up in his old brown Chevy, sheepishly coming inside and telling my parents what was going on before we went out. I felt all of seven-fucking-teen years old again.  
Mom was her usually worried, tight-assed self, telling me that I shouldn’t go. Dad sighed, unsure he could really stop me – he looked at us, told me he expected Adam and I back in a couple of hours, then grabbed Mom and moved her out of the way.  
By the time we turned off on old N road, I felt like I was playing twenty questions with my best friend. He kept making queries I could either nod or shake my head at. More annoying still, he kept telling me he was sorry. He’d apologized to me forty-three times since this had all started, and yes, I was keeping a mental tally.  
When we arrived, the place was as busy as I ever saw it – people flowed in and out of the door like molasses, either too drunk to move quickly, or not all that excited about going in. We pulled into the parking lot, and both saw an all too familiar figure leaning against the wall next to the front entrance, smoking like a train. It seemed the old adage held true – sometimes, girl-punching assholes do return to the scene of the crime.  
Adam let out a long-suffering sigh, placing one rough hand on my forearm. 

“I can just go in and talk to Jack for you – I’ll lock the doors to the truck, and you can stay here - call the cops. Maybe we can get the bastard arrested.”

I bit my lip, thinking for a moment, then shook my head. Using the cell, I took five minutes or so to text him the symbols corresponding to “GET IN & GET OUT.” I hoped that we could use the shadowy parking lot and the people in it to our advantage. Big red hadn’t seemed all there anyway, so we might evade him in one seamless move. Like I said, we’re two white middle-class kids from a small town. I figured we were better off using subterfuge rather than alerting the cops, and increasing the possibility of some kind of weird stand-off at the local biker’s bar.  
Adam swallowed hard. It seemed he understood what I was getting at. Taking a moment to scoot his baseball cap a little lower, he managed to make sure the bill obscured his features in the dark. My hair was tied back in a loose bun – I knew that would leave my face too visible. I unwound the elastic band holding everything together at the base of my neck, and shook out my long dark hair so that it fell like two heavy drapes on either side of my head. It was the best I could do on short notice. 

“Ready?”

I nodded, and we exited the truck cab, moving fast, faces cast downward. We pushed past several people leaving the bar, and tried to stay out of sight right before we had to move inside. I stepped ahead of Adam, throwing open the front entrance with more force than usual because of my nerves. I’d made it a few feet inside before Adam caught up with me. I’d never been happier to see the big, mawing crocodile head. We stood there a moment, trying to catch our breath and lower our respective pulses. 

“We made it – we made it, Carrie Anne!” 

Adam turned, his face brightening with victory – and as soon as he had, a large familiar fist came from over my shoulder and rendered him on the ground, lights completely out. The same large hand took my arm, and dragged me back through the door. I knew exactly who this was. I tried shaking big red off while yelling swears at the top of my lungs, but didn’t get loose until I was a few feet away from the bar again. When he finally let me go, I stumbled at least four feet away from him, which still might not be a safe distance. His arms looked like they could reach over oceans, never mind a few feet. I might as well have been miles from Jack’s front door – between me, the bar, and my friend was the same ginger jerk who had started all this trouble. He placed his enormous hands onto his hips, thumbs twisting into the loops of his jeans, then motioned in my direction with his chin full of fire-shocked hair. 

“I wanted a few words with you, not him,” big red said in a clear, measured tone. 

“And besides, the gowling little fucker owed me.” 

“Well you can’t have ‘words’ with me,” I shouted back. 

“Oh, yes…yes. You see, words with you? I can and will have those.”

I growled, then took my cell from out of my pocket, preparing to dial 911.  
Big red huffed in my direction, one hand shakily adjusting the flat cap on his head.

“And what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“I’m calling the cops.” 

“And what will you say to them? Or rather will they understand you? And have you not noticed, you little snot, that you and I are having a goddamn conversation?”

I got angry then, thinking that he meant I shouldn’t assume he could be disturbed with something as insignificant as my discomfort – my fear. Then, everything ground to a halt. My hand went slack, and I dropped my phone to the ground. 

“What-what the shit?” 

“Ah, now you’ll be wanting those fucking words.” 

“How…?” 

“I have a few educated guesses – but make no mistake, you’re speaking the same Gaeilge that I haven’t heard for hundreds of years – maybe longer. I came off the boat with those words still in my head – in my nightmares, I hear ‘em. But they’re dead here – they’re dead in this fucking spiritual wasteland of a place. But you - you have them. And you have…” he stopped at that, his voice shaking.

I went still, taking a moment to observe big red. It was the first time I’d actually made an effort to give his presence attention – as anything other than a threat, that is. I had been hearing an accent the first time we’d met at Jack’s – and it had taken me back to my summer abroad across the Atlantic. I’d been too scared at the time to think of it as consequential, although Adam had. He’d told the cops that we’d been assaulted by “a big Irish fuck.” 

“You’re awful quiet for a girl who loves the sound of her own voice so much,” big red countered, taking me out of my daze. 

“I would very much like it if you let me go,” I said, as politely as I could. Dude was imbalanced, and I knew that was the diplomatic way of saying it. 

“Let you…? Fuck, I’m here to help you!” 

“You hit me. You hit me and caused this,” I shouted, waving my hands wildly into space. I winced at the memory then, noting my still-tender bruise mid-cheek. With that, the giant man made a noise in the back of his throat, and looked upwards into the night sky as if he was trying desperately to find something. 

“I. Didn’t. Fucking. Mean to! I had a bargain with your man, and he was paying up – until you got in the goddamn way.” 

“Not my man,” I corrected. 

“Well, he would if he could. That’s plain as you are.” 

I squinted with rage of my own, gave big red the bird, and made to run in the opposite direction of where he was standing. As I started to sprint, he bellowed after me. 

“I guess you’ll be leaving your bag of shit with me, then?” I groaned, then turned back and stood in front of big red once more, hands defiantly on my hips. 

“Your advisor wants you to contact him as soon as you can,” he mentioned, scanning the parking lot around us with indifference. 

“He sent an email last night – kind of an impatient cunt, isn’t he?” 

“I don’t need my stuff that badly – especially if you’re insane enough to think I’m going to deal with you any longer than I have to.”

He chuckled at that. 

“I take it you’re relying on what you had stashed in that drawer to carry you through?” 

I let my face scrunch up in disbelief. 

“It wasn’t that hard finding it. You and your Da weren’t there, and your mother – well, your mother sleeps like a goddamn rock. Sounds like a foghorn, but sleeps like a rock.” 

“You went into my fucking house? You went into MY FUCKING ROOM?” 

Cocking a brow upwards, he nodded affirmatively. He took a flask out of his back pocket, and knocked a swig back, careful to enunciate when next he started to speak. 

“Like I said, girl. We need to have words. So let’s get into not-your-man’s truck, and maybe have a sit-down.” 

I gritted my teeth. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” 

“Well. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, putting the flask away and tilting his head. 

“Not much, anyway.”

I paused, then closed my eyes, grasping for an excuse even though we both already knew that I was coming with him – that I’d give my soul up to get my zip drive and research back. 

“I- I don’t have keys – they’re back there with Adam. You know, the guy you punched.” 

“S’alright,” big red said, swaggering towards the Chevy. 

“His piece is old, and won’t be hard to get into. The older it is, the more likely it’ll be my friend.”


	3. Mouse, King, Waffle House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good things are never in Waffle House late at night.  
> That includes the coffee.

Scéalaíocht: The King & The Pale One  
On the coastal line of Dál nAraidi, the banfilid lived and studied the sky and its stars, the ground and its plants, the songs begun long ago and still on the lips of the exalted peoples.  
They worked and studied for Brigid, and lived between the sacred stones. Cycles of years came and went, and to live with the order was a great honor – many mothers and fathers sent the brightest of their brood to the sea’s edge to see the Bright Ones – the poet priestesses.  
If it could be managed, you were taught and became a learned woman. Boy children too were taken in and given schooling, though their futures usually lay outside the banfilid. Even young ones not suited to the life were enfolded into the community and were given purpose and use.  
The Bright Ones turned no one away.  
There was Eorann, eldest daughter of a chief from a small clan in the north-eastern territory of the land, and he had two daughters but only one son.  
And so it was that the youngest daughter named Aoife, who was a great beauty, was thought to be good for an advantageous match as she became older.  
Like her mother, her hair was sunrise and her eyes were blue like bright sky.  
But, like her mother who had passed on after her birth, Aoife was a frail thing. It was the spring of her fifteenth year and those were the days of Suibhne mac Colmain who had come to rule over the Cruthin folk in County Antrim.  
Few from the tribes had stood against the man at all – he had united them and won the right to do so through sheer force. But there was old Maelchon, who had taken exception to bending his knee and pledging himself. When things were said and done, the new king was on the throne and Maelchon – father of Eorann, Bridei, and Aoife found he must find a way to appease the new land-master so that he and his might be spared.  
“Doubt he’d find Eorann,” the father told his only boy-child.  
“You and your sister, though – they’d gut you like boars.”  
So it was that Maelchon bartered with the new land-master king, and it was decide that Aoife would seal peace between them all, and a matos-time with thirty full days was chosen for the contract to be sealed.  
But, as is known, the Gods laugh at men’s plans.  
Nineteen full days before the handfasting – nineteen days before Old Maelchon could bend the knee to his new king and leave no doubt of his family’s loyalty, Aoife fell into a fever that turned her skin purple and gave her fits that would send her whole body shaking like a blade of grass in the wind.  
Seven of the banfildi made the long journey from the edge of the sea to heal the girl at the persistence of Eorann who learned her family would likely be slaughtered without a union between her sister and Suibhne mac Colmain.  
Though she was still an initiate, Eorann was well-regarded and an accomplished healer among the sect. She had spent the better part of her twenty-two years with The Bright Ones, and had learned much.  
In those days, she was called The Pale One, and as soon as she came into her father’s wattle-and-daub, Eorann cleared the place of evil, laying iron at the hearth to invoke the goddess Brigid. She bathed her little sister in caisearbhán and burdock tinctures. She made tea from bilberries to ease the inflammation of Aoife’s skin, and sang her songs that she remembered being performed by the bards and priestesses when she’d first come to Dál nAraidi.  
“I was so afraid,” she would whisper to the lovely unhearing girl.  
“But Brigid comforted me with her songs then, as she still does now.” Eorann would squeeze Aoife’s hand, and vow that somehow, she’d sing her back into being, too – will her to keep on living.  
Ten days after the banfildi came to Aoife’s bedside, the beauty woke and Maelchon’s people took breaths of easiness. But Aoife was still weak, and Eorann knew that sending her off to bear someone’s sons and daughters so soon would be a death sentence to her young sister who was but barely grown. She would not let her younger sister die as her lady mother had.  
So. She sent the bright ones off to the coast with her sister in tow – it would be certain that the bridegroom would not find her. Then, Eorann packed her goods and gear up on an old horse. She and Bridei set off to beg the new land-master king for forbearance and mercy.  
After two days of travel, they came to the place where Suibhne mac Colmain had placed one stone over the other and made himself a walled house of renown. Bridei announced himself as the son of the wayward Maelchon. At the first sound of his voice, men appeared in order that the upstart’s heir and the young woman behind him might be ushered inside with much anticipation. Whether a fight or the end of a feud, the people didn’t care – and neither did Suibhne, who found much sport in a tussle and had the temper to prove it.  
He appeared like a great beast in his own hall, hair a disheveled red mess and beard a wild nest. This land-master was known for the battlefields he left behind him, and not his comely nature. It was this in mind that the only son of Old Maelchon spoke with a trembling throat.  
“I have come to beg mercy,” Bridei told all as he bent his own knee to the ground.  
“That’s a fine thing, but it’s Maelchon I am quarreling with. And why have you not brought my new wife?”  
Bridei gaped and groveled.  
Those behind the walls of the great house gathered in the great room became eager for a quarrel, and just as they thought their land-master might strike down the boy, the woman stepped in front of the high seat in the hall and stood straight.  
The elder sister of Aoife the beauty addressed the king, eyes cast down, voice clear.  
“I am Eorann, one of the banfilid who hails from Dál nAraidi, servant of Brigid, and daughter to Maelchon.”  
The air in the place stirred, and all the people quieted their noise. The presence of a Bright One was no small thing.  
“Wise King of the Cruthin folk, I beg you forgive my brother and my father. I beg you forgive me as I have come here to plea for my sister’s life. She who will soon be your wife has taken ill.”  
“And nearly died, I had heard,” replied the king.  
“-but for seven sisters of Brigid who came and then stole her away. And what will you do now, Eorann of the banfilid, now that your family’s peace-make is gone?”  
“Merciful king – good king, I have come to stay in your house until Aoife is strong. I will use what I have learned at Dál nAraidi, and Brigid willing, I will be a glad servant. I pledge not to return to my sisters until you have what you’ve been promised by my family. If, in a year’s time, the youngest daughter of Maelchon is not under your roof, I forfeit my life.”  
Suibhne mac Colmain was not a merciful man at all, but hearing Eorann’s words reminded him in some small way that he might be. As has been said, the presence of a Bright One in a new king’s household was a thing of note. He sat in his honor-seat and beheld the children of his enemy – they had known coming might be their end, and yet…and yet.  
“Well, it is a fine thing to be offered a great beauty and delivered a plain priestess,” Suibhne bellowed.  
“Though, it is better to have your father’s allegiance – and what better way than to keep his kin behind my wall?”  
So.  
That is how The Pale One came to meet the king. 

 

I’m certain that from time to time, everyone asks themselves how they’ve gotten to a specific place in life. If we knew how odd and twisty – how complicated and strange – our waking days could be, would we ever have the courage to leave our beds?

I wonder this among a host of other things as I sit across from a big Irish bastard in Waffle House late on a Tuesday night. I’d insisted we go somewhere with people around. Big red had mocked me while recklessly steering Adam’s truck down the road towards town by repeating my request in a high-pitched voice.

“Well, you’re a charming fuck,” I muttered under my breath. In my peripheral vision, I thought I saw the man sitting beside me turn his head at that. Surely not.  
Surely, he didn’t care what the hell I thought of him - but sure enough, in a few moments we were pulling into the parking lot bathed in the glow of a familiar black and yellow sign.  
We walk in, and big red sits down heavily in one of the booths. I follow suit, then fold my arms across my chest in what must have been a defensive gesture. 

“You’d do well not to try your generalized smarmy-assed shit and piss-poor attitude on me, little mouse.”

“Forgive me if I’m not totally enjoying my evening.”

“You want anything?”

“What?”

I start at that, shaking my head and utterly confused.

“D’you want anything?”

I take in a breath as the man across from me repeats his question, and look sheepishly up at him through my hair. This might all be easier if I had something to drink – something to sip and stir.  
“I…would like some coffee.”

Big red nods straight-faced, slumping back against the back of the booth, and motions to a young blonde waitress who looks dead on her feet. After ordering my coffee, he removes the round flask from the left-hand pocket of his patched-up jean jacket and takes another pull from its contents. 

“Don’t know if that’s such a good choice, really,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact while giving his unmanageable orange fauxhawk a comb with the long fingers on his other hand.  
“You’re high-strung as it is.” 

“You barely know me,” I spit just as the slip of a girl sits a mug down in front of me and pours me a steaming cup of brew. She looks at me curiously, and again I remember – I make no sense to anyone. Not anymore. She likely thinks I am from far away, and that I don't know a lick of English. 

I clear my throat.  
“D-do you mind asking her if I can have some milk? For the coffee?”

Big red cocks his brow, and stays completely silent as the waitress moves on. The round dim lamps overhead lend his skin an extra pallor that makes him look…not ill, exactly – but perhaps a bit tired. 

“You can’t get something for nothing, little mouse. And you haven’t been very nice to me. I already ordered you a cuppa. It’s your turn to give a little.” 

“Right,” I sigh. To be fair, I had forgotten my manners – though it was absurd to think about manners in light of what had already transpired between us.  
“Thank you for the coffee. I appreciate the gesture of goodwill.”

“There, did that kill you?” 

I uncross my arms, and let them sit on the table in front of me. Grasping the hot mug between my hands, I carefully take a drink.  
“No.” 

He makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, and nods in acknowledgement. 

“So…I don’t understand why I’m here,” I start, trying to think of a logical way to proceed.  
“Besides the obvious. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“That’s because none of this could be fucking obvious to you.”

At that, the man reaches his mile-long arm across the table, and pours some of his flask’s contents into my mug. I pull a face as he glances up at me.  
“Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you drink plenty,” he blurts out.  
“Besides, you’ll be thankful you’ve got some of this in your system momentarily. Drink up.” 

Where had he seen me drink anything? Had he been in Jack’s before? And how could I not have noticed someone as imposing as he was just hanging around? It was true – Jack’s was full of all kinds of characters, but he would certainly have…well, stood out.  
After a beat to process this revelation, I clear my throat. 

“It’s Carrie,” I say, correcting him in a stern, low voice.  
“Carrie Anne.”

Big red snorted.  
“Like the song?”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Let’s get to it, eh? I know your name – you don’t know mine.”

He lifted his brows, took a deep breath, and looked directly into my face.  
“I’m Mad Sweeney. I’m a Leprechaun.”

I sit stock still for a moment, looking at big red as if he really is mad. All at once, I bolt out of my seat, and around the counter in Waffle House back towards the kitchen. The shocked blonde waitress follows me.

“You can’t come back here!”

“I need to make a phone call. Several, actually. Where’s your phone? I’m in danger, and…”  
Then I remember - nobody in Waffle House speaks old Gaelic, except for the asshole who is quite probably out of his goddamn mind.  
In a rush of bright hair, dusty boots, and worn denim, big red leaps over the counter, calmly bending towards the waitress. His voice doesn’t match the size of his gestures or his gait. 

“She’s fine – we’ve just had a disagreement,” he assures her softly. 

The stunned waitress just stands there, unsure of what to do next. 

“You’re a nut, you know?” I yell, while looking wildly for an office door.  
“You don’t get to do this – you don’t get to bring my research – my life’s fucking work! – into this. You don’t get to play pretend with my head!”

“Knew you shouldn’t’ve had the coffee.”  
He sounds so calm, so dispassionate that it actually deflates me.  
“Sit back down. Have the good fucking grace to hear me out.”

“No! Nope. You’re…you’re,”  
“Telling you the goddamn truth,” the madman counters, and quick as you please he pulls a golden coin out of the goddamn air above him like it’s nothing – just as he had the night this whole violent linguistic fiasco had started.  
“I am, mouse. I AM! You can believe me or you can blather on for all eternity without anyone understanding you, not giving a good goddamn about what you’re saying. Or…”  
He leans over, getting his face much too close to mine for comfort.  
“We can figure this the fuck out, eh?”

My heartbeat feels like a frightened sparrow beating its wings against my rib cage. My breathing is ragged, and the blood in my ears is humming – but there is no feel of actual dread in my stomach. Fear, sure. But in my skin and bone, something tells me – “Go sit down, Carrie Anne. You need him.” 

I reluctantly glance toward the waitress, who is staring with large dishpan eyes at big red, mooning over his coin trick. 

She’s going on about loving magic or some fucking nonsense, and I grow bored watching the little thing flirt, so I go sit back down. Eventually, my tormentor joins me.

“That comes in handy,” he tells me, and motions over to the waitress who is holding the shiny coin up to the light of the lamps between her thumb and index finger. 

“How’d you do it?” I ask.

Big red grins down at me.  
“With panache.”

I snort, and smile into the coffee in front of me that’s growing too cool for consumption. Cheap coffee is only palatable if it’s hot, after all.  
“C’mon.”

“Well, maybe if I keep doing it, you’ll believe me.”  
I get quiet and uncomfortable again.

“You want me to believe you’re thousands of years old. You want me to believe that you’re the man – no, the king - from the goddamn epic I’m translating?” 

“Well, I *was* a king first. Then I wasn’t. That much is true.”

“Right. So how does that connect us?”

He leans forward over the table again as if he wants to tell me a secret, and without realizing what I’m doing, I crane my neck so that I can hear him better.  
“You, little mouse…I’m going to help you finish your work. And you’re going to help me live forever.” 

“Is that all?”

“No. Not all...but the rest can wait.”

He points to my mug.  
“Take another drink, will you?”

I furrow my brow.  
“Why don’t you just give me the flask? Coffee’s gotten cold, and your new admirer hasn’t been by to refresh it.”

“No. No favors till we have a deal, mouse.”

I sigh, and roll my eyes. What’s the harm, really? The worst thing that happens is that I get my stuff back, he feeds me some crazy story, and I keep working on my project.

“Yes. Ok. Fine. We’ve got a deal, Mad Sweeney king of the Picts or whoever you are. I’ll – help you fucking live forever or some such shit. So, is that it?”

“No. Not quite.”  
Nevertheless, He’s passes me the flask at this point, and I take a drink of low-shelf whisky which makes me sputter a little. He waits till I’ve handed him back his booze, then scrunches his face up as if he’s trying to figure something out. 

“But like I said, the rest can wait.”

I nod, making a mental note that I might regret this later on, but for now I’m just getting through this one moment that I’ve met up with on the rest of the path.  
I’m getting by.  
That’s enough. 

“So, how will this work? Where are we going to meet up? Because the cops aren’t just going to forget about what happened.”  
I wave my hand, and he nods. 

“You think I’ve survived this long without easily evading the fuckwits?”  
I sigh, and cock my brow.

“Sweeney, I think you might be one of those fuckwits.”

At that, he grits his teeth into a tight, dangerous grin and cracks his knuckles.  
I am suddenly glad we're on the same side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry! Life intervenes.  
> I've had a lot thrown at me in the past few weeks, plus I am studying for exams this fall.  
> So - I took a quick break to do something I love before diving back into the fray. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read through my scribbling - you're swell!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my summer obsession.  
> This could grow into something, but I'll have to write ahead to keep it going.  
> Posts could get a bit random as work intervenes. 
> 
> As always, this is Neil & Bryan Fuller's world - I'm just splashing around in it a bit.  
> Feel free to message me - I love talking to other fans!


End file.
